Lyrics

Atha…
now.

Not tomorrow.
Not when I am healed.
Not when the mind is quiet.

Now.

Citta draws a thousand circles,
vṛtti turns them into truth,
every pattern wears a body,
every memory borrows youth.

Avidyā blurs the mirror,
asmita writes down my name,
rāga says, “hold this forever,”
dveṣa says, “keep this away.”

Abhiniveśa in the clinging,
fear disguising itself as care,
samskāras beneath the surface,
old impressions everywhere.

And I believed
every movement of the mind
was mine.

Until I learned
that something watches
without becoming what it finds.

Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ —
let the waters become clear.

Not by breaking every wave,
not by making thought disappear.

Tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe ’vasthānam —
when the seeing stands alone.

Maybe freedom isn’t finding something new.
Maybe freedom
is coming home.

Abhyāsa is returning,
vairāgya loosens what I hold,
one keeps bringing me to practice,
one reminds me not to own.

Tapas burns through repetition,
svādhyāya turns the gaze within,
īśvara praṇidhāna whispers,
“you are not the only thing.”

Yama shapes the way I touch you.
Niyama shapes the way I live.

Āsana teaches steady softness.
Prāṇāyāma teaches give.

Pratyāhāra turns the senses,
dhāraṇā gathers what was spread,
dhyāna becomes the flowing river,
samādhi loosens self from thread.

Eight limbs,
not eight ladders.

Not escape.
Not perfect form.

Only different ways
of meeting what is here
without becoming every storm.

Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ —
let the waters become clear.

Not by breaking every wave,
not by making thought disappear.

Tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe ’vasthānam —
when the seeing stands alone.

Maybe freedom isn’t finding something new.
Maybe freedom
is coming home.

Tamas says, “stay.”
Rajas says, “move.”
Sattva says, “see.”

And still-
even clarity
is something passing through prakṛti.

Puruṣa does not chase the weather.
Puruṣa does not become the sky.

It is the seeing
behind the seeing,
the quiet
that does not need to try.

Karma writes through every action.
Samskāra answers from below.

What I practice leaves an imprint.
What I feed
is what will grow.

So let the practice become conscious.

Let the pattern lose its throne.
Let discernment cut through habit.
Let viveka lead me home.

Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ —
not a silence made by force.

Not a war against the mind.
Not abandoning the source.

Tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe ’vasthānam —
what remains when names are gone?

Not the story.
Not the wanting.
Not the fear I built upon.

Kaivalya —
not becoming more.

Not winning.
Not escape.

Only freedom from confusing
every movement
with my face.

Abhyāsa —
I return.

Vairāgya —
I release.

Viveka —
I discern.

Kaivalya —
I am free.

Atha…
now the teaching begins.
And begins.
And begins.